


Joy Costs a Penny, Wisdom Comes Free

by avidvampirehunter



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: (Takes place 27 years after the events of the film), 2017 Film, Attempted Sexual Assault, Basically if "Bride of IT" was a thing..., Brain Damage, Dark fic, Horror, If you came to root for the protagonist... you will be sorely disappointed, Insinuation of masturbation, Murder Kink, Other, Pennywise/OC, Rated E for Everything Burns, Read at your own risk!, Romance?, UST, Unstoppable Force meets an Immovable Object, sanatorium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avidvampirehunter/pseuds/avidvampirehunter
Summary: After an accident leaves Joy Simmons devoid of the ability to fear, she enters the infamous town of Derry to see if the stories are true. Unable to feed off her non-existent terror, IT sees no reason to reveal himself—until she makes an offer he can't refuse.





	1. Sudden Changes in Behavior

**Author's Note:**

> "IT" was the first horror movie I ever saw in theatres. As I obsessed, I got to thinking about what would happen if Pennywise had his own personal fangirl, who was physically unable to fear him and thus, making her the only one who could either destroy him, or join him.
> 
> I guess you'll find out which is which.

A book.

Beginning words and chapters, was all they were. Based on a true story, but no one believes. The story of sewer children bathing like rats in the blood of a creature whom, they claim, took the form of fear itself, and still may.

It sounds cannibalistic to Joy Simmons—for Fear itself to feast on fear. Cannibalistic and cunning. A plot-twist of marketing to most, but to her, it’s truth. A sad sadism, as inviting as the rainclouds over Neibolt. Resting in her hidden palm.

A yellow raincoat, hood drawn, and one layer underneath. Since the accident, skin feels like clothes, clothes feel like skin, and coats taste like tongue and teeth. Rain puddles and crying clouds paint the house a wobbling grey, sopping from her eyes and chasing fear away.

It’s amazing how losing one’s mind grants the courage to walk through death’s door. The house is dirty, and exactly how the author described. He was young, then, a victim with a stutter. B-B-B-Billy. Joy swears she can feel herself walking in his decades-old footprints, shifting over leaves drenched in carrion stench from the August rain.

There’s a crumpled poster in her hand. _Missing: Carrie Nesbit._ The book, small and damp, hides inside of her pocket. A map, of sorts. It leads her down the steps and to the well. The infamous well. What once would have frightened her registers naught, only curiosity and impulse left. She pulls down her hood to let the ink spill out like blood. Looks down into the darkness.

Smiles.

_"What’s wrong with her?"_

_"The accident damaged her frontal lobe. Symptoms may include inhibition, aggression, impaired moral judgement—"_

_"Can’t you fix her?"_

_"I’m sorry Doctor, it’s out of our control...."_

_"Then what is?"_

_"There is medication, but the brain doesn’t just grow back.  At this rate, she may never recover."_

_"Is there no hope for her, then? How can she move past this and live like a normal person?"_

_"Ah, well, if you ask me, there is one positive to all of this, but like everything else it has its drawbacks—"_

_"Tell me."_

_"...She will never fear again."_


	2. Memory Loss

Being the daughter of a psychoanalyst has its perks. Sometimes you eat with him, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you ride with him, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you can’t take the damned white suits and the windshield wipers so you try to crash the car yourself, but you’re still inside.

Perk number one: Everybody thinks you’re crazy.

Perk number two: Nobody _knows_ you’re crazy.

It feels like wisdom kissing air. Stale and full of all the sharp, forbidden and foreboding things. Beats and pulses in the dark and eyes shining where nothing blinks. Joy knows enough now, knows that the stories must be true, that the group will obey their pact and steal away her unsolicited curiosities. She couldn’t have that now. Not after the accident.

The crash destroyed her.

The crash set her free.

Licking her lips, Joy takes the rope and wraps it around the post until it’s good enough. The hole is dark and unending, slithering and oozing slushed corpses that will continue to go unseen. She can’t afford to care about that now. As she scales down the slimy walls, she finds the small opening Denbrough wrote about.

Cell phones are handy things—know-how-to-light things. Eyes open and scanning the darkness, Joy treks through the filth and greywater, wrinkling her nose at the unpleasantness. She looks down a few times, expecting severed heads and maggot-infested faces, but nothing comes. She holds the paper tighter, in an effort to remember. She can feel it slipping already, the memory that children have gone missing again. It’s proof between her fingers. Conclusive proof. She has to hold on to get what she wants. There is no turning back.

She finally enters the massive catacomb. Water rushes, screaming down the stone and drowning in the abyss. Just as Denbrough wrote. But, perhaps, what is even more impressive is the colossal pile of children’s belongings dripping and sloshing with memories long lost. The towering collection makes her pause in awe, scanning the macabre vision of it. An abandoned hoard, forever entombed in an underground palace of terror.

She bends over to pick up a tattered doll. It’s mouth is missing. Almost beautiful in its haunting, shifting cloth. Smile. It reminds her of a time before. Of fear and malintent unbidden and unspoken.

_The girl is like a skeleton. Her eyes are sunken and dead, gazing brightly into the distance like burning stars, coming to consume._

_Joy can’t stand to look at her._

_But her father insists._

_When Joy enters, she holds the book in such a way that their eyes refrain contact. She sits in the cloth chair. It reeks of urine and metallic sweat.  She opens the creaking book, but the bright pictures inside can’t hide what’s waiting and listening just beyond, still as a corpse in the hospital bed. Joy shakes with every page, gravity resisting the pull of her eyes. The book is almost finished when the doll thrusts itself to the tile floor. Joy swallows._

_“Oh... Could you get that for me, please?”_

_The voice is small, and normal enough. Just like her. But still, Joy stares. The doll stares back. What have those black button eyes seen? What will they see? Such questions, such answers, never to be asked or told._

_Joy knows that leaving this toy to rest on the ground will bring a good beating. Perhaps that’s what made her lean over, made her pulse race, made her forget who she was handing it to enough to look up._

_Her skin stretches over bone and skull like a drum, yellow and stained. Her little teeth poke through her lips like fangs, but her eyes… her eyes echo and ground, screaming and screeching death lurking behind._

_In a moment, the doll is thrown and so is Joy, through the door and into the safety of her own quarters. Where the sunlight rests, the nightlights dance, and the skeleton girl is left unnamed._

How many years later did Joy pick up that small, unsold book? How many nights did she spend, curled up in her bed, reading and re-reading, imagining the horrors unfolding? They unfurled like the petals of a poisonous flower, beckoning in beauty and dangerous in thought. Nights spent dreaming not of heroism or villainy, but merely the bravery to know. To _see_.

A decade passed between then and now. A diploma. A crash. A mission to fulfill. The willingness to seek and find came upon her when she awoke from that fateful night. Joy went to that skeletal girl—a woman, now—and shook her hand. Memorized her name.

Now she is here, in the bowels of Hell, holding a doll and smiling as though it were all no more than a fond memory. She holds onto it as she looks around, making a lap around the pile until she comes face-to-face with the carriage. She gasps, sighs in surprised pleasantry, as though coming upon a tray of fresh desserts, welcome to take. The name scrawls over, faded in rust but glowing gold in her eyes.

She knocks on the rippled and morphed metal, but the sound only echoes. Frowning in disappointment, she decides that, if the creature won’t come on its own, it will need to be goaded.

“I know you’re here,” she calls. Her own voice scurries away and back in a whisper. It bounces off the water and against the walls like a deranged prisoner seeking escape. It’s motivating. Invigorating. “I know you’re hungry.” The poster unfolds from her hand like a decree.

There is no response.

Humming a brief discontent, Joy sets the phone onto the ground, the light beaming up to illuminate the radius around her.  She turns to look at the entryway, as though it were hiding there. As though an animal awaited in the dark, needing only to be coaxed with the proper bribe.

Digging into her coat, she pulls out the book. Smile. “He wrote about you, you know. Billy Denbrough. He and his friends promised they’d come back once you did. To finish you off for good.” She thinks that will work for sure, but still, only silence and water drips and dribbles like drool.

Joy waits a moment, wetting her lips and staring into the darkness. She decides to pick up her phone and go looking, instead. She turns on her heel, only to see the illuminated face of old nightmares frowning intensely back.

_It._

His appearance is just as grotesque as depicted, though in less health and less glee. Her phone still on the ground, the shadows scar his face with anger and malintent, and the eyes… the eyes burn a bright amber, pricking and stabbing through the darkness and directly into her soul.

Joy crosses her arms, staring up and into his impressive face. He does not move or shift, and she’s tempted to hold back her polite smile. “Pennywise.”

He— _It_ —doesn’t blink, or even seem to look at her. Not with this face, anyway. Nor does he speak. Joy can almost sense it. His attempts to survey her, to find fear where none resides. Not anymore.

She offers the poster, more as evidence than a gift. “You’ve been hunting again.”

This seems to jar something, but not one of the sinister smiles foretold. It’s tight and contorted—like his skin doesn’t fit. The ground whispers her name. _JoyJoyJoyJoyJoyJoyJoy._

But still she is unafraid.

In a blink—no, not even that—a gloved hand is around her throat. Not entirely strangling, not entirely suffocating. Just enough to be immobilized.

**_“Why have you come here?”_ **

His voice is alien, titillated and bizarre. Light and heavy, sinking and floating. Every syllable is carefully enunciated. He does not fit into this world.

And now, neither does she.

He leaves her room to take a breath, to spew a haggard line that will seal their fates forever.

“I’m here to take you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the last chapter before things get really dark. If themes such as murder, being eaten alive, and very unhealthy romantic and villainous obsessions bother you, then this might be where you get off. Hopefully the ending is worth it, though...
> 
> Stay tuned, Fellow Losers.


	3. Decreased Empathetic Ability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say, I did not expect such a warm reception! I've never written—or watched—horror before, and you are all so splendid. I hope this chapter pleases you. They will be getting longer, so the waiting time might be different.
> 
> Thanks for your patience. <3

Fury comes and goes in waves, it seems, flickering on It’s face like dying lights. A moment more to stare, a moment longer to peer and insure that no fear, not one drop, can be taken. Starvation. Joy is dust—charred grit at the bottom of the pot.

Inedible.

Powerful.

Pennywise lets go of her, and Joy falls in a heap at his feet. Rubbing away the inconvenience of strangulation, she rises again with a challenging frown.

The creature is weak, she finds. A simple observation, a quick glance at the cracking face and dimmed eyes. Joy never saw any children floating here, in this massive tomb. No leftovers—nothing to save for later. Whomever he ate, Carrie Nesbit—perhaps more—was not enough. Pennywise backs away from her, glaring, yet does nothing else. Perhaps he has learned. Perhaps neither of them will go anywhere.

But that would defeat the purpose of coming to Derry.

Joy crumples up the paper, tossing it onto the pile with a pursed determination. She’s come this far. She’s not about to back down, now. She steps forward; he steps back. Forward, back. Stop. “Well?” she prompts impatiently.

Pennywise cocks his head. The movement is inhuman, shifting through the air, cutting like the strike of a snake. Perhaps it is curiosity that slowly becomes him, his lips curling over enlarged teeth—yet hiding the fangs underneath. “You are not afraid?”

The way he speaks is rushed and hushed, like water from a stream. A continuous flow of sounds meant for ears, but not to be spoken. Deceptively deep and churning. “No,” Joy replies, feeling a thrill of adrenaline pulse through her, “and neither are they.” She holds up the book again, closer this time. Pennywise stares and shrinks, repulsed. Offended—like a demon from a rosary. “They put your name on it. You’re famous now.” Smile, with spite. Revenge for the impolite strangling. “Maybe I could get an autograph?”

Joy can almost see the gears turning, the realization dawning that those who bested him will make good on their threat to return. It’s face becomes morbid, pouting and… frightened. He seems to forget Joy’s presence, grasped by memories of twenty-some years ago.

She seeks to rectify that. “I could help you, y’know. I know a place far from here. Somewhere you can hide.”

He seems to have no further interest, turning and slinking into imaginary waters. Joy’s heart thumps. No, it’s too soon for him to disappear. She has learned nothing. Has not _seen_. She steps forward.

“Somewhere you can eat.”

He pauses for a long moment, and suddenly, the upper half of his body twists completely to face her. Bones crack and splinter and shift every way they shouldn’t. The contortion is impossible, yet he stalks backwards to loom over her. The shadows are less pronounced, now. She can see the face in all of It’s blinding, terrible glory.

Lips pursing and curling upwards to define painted cheeks, his brow draws and eyes light with furious craving. _This_ is the It she read about. The Pennywise who haunted her daydreams. Old nightmares of a life lived so long ago, before his fiendish smile glowering inches from her very nose. Before his laughter rips through the air and peters off into engulfing darkness.

_"What are the side effects, Kraft?"_

_"Well, not all of them are applicable, but there have been cases—"_

_"I already know about psychosis. But tell me… what do we have to fear from her?"_

_"Dr.Simmons, it’s just as the nurse told you. I’m afraid your daughter may eventually suffer from sudden changes in behavior, memory loss, decreased empathetic ability, impaired moral judgement, and potentially severe aggression."_

"That's..."

_"Nothing to worry about, I assure you. And in rare cases, treatable. As long as she is put under strict and proper surveillance, nothing bad will happen to your daughter—or your facility."_

Monsters don’t travel alongside you.

They follow, eventually, slinking through the shadows and between every blade of grass. Sniffing you out. Finding you. Perhaps It was the bird on the telephone wire, the cloud covering the sun, the deer carcass swarming in flies on the side of the road, the splintered branches between the trees. Joy doesn’t know for sure. She never will.

Connecticut is a beautiful place. Much like Maine, its air is crisp with the far winds, carrying in the salted ocean breeze over miles of green. But that is diluted, especially here, where elms and evergreens loom and shroud. They choke out the sunlight and bath the grounds in shadow.

 _Joyful Noise Sanatorium._ A hospital for the young and troubled; a home for the homeless child. Though beautiful, this place hides poverty between the sheets and leaves the result on the doorstep. But Joy Simmons was born here. Born into the pristine white tiles, the long hallways and sobbing children on the other side of a door. Born on the bread of fear, sandwiched between the sick and alone, devoured by the monotonous ticking clocks and silent gasps whisping like spirits along the floor.

Home.

Tires sift and pop over gravel, kicking up dust and rolling to a halt. Joy leaves the car immediately, eager to stretch her legs. Paying the driver is a second thought. Amazing how one accident can prompt you to pay a stranger for a ride.

Amazing how, eventually, someone will give you one.

The car is gone before Dr. Simmons can race down the stairs to greet her. His frown is deeply set, something that would have frightened her before. Now all she notices are the wrinkles over his brow and a few untrimmed nose hairs. Other nurses watch from behind their streaming cigarettes.

“Hi,” Joy says, in no mood to smile.

Dr. Simmons steps in front of her before she can ascend the stony steps, crossing his arms. “Where were you?”

She shrugs halfheartedly. Everything has been halfhearted recently. Everything but the book and the pages and the truth at the bottom of that well. There’s no reason to lie. “I went to Derry.”

 _“Maine?”_ he spits. Joy can’t help but think he would be scarier with a good trimming. His nostrils flare, giving her a good look. It’s not enough to completely distract, though. The next insult is personal. “You’re still obsessing over that damn _book?”_

Joy frowns. “You said it was good for me to have a hobby,” she protests.

Dr. Simmons blanches. This is a new thing for her, to deny and object when she used to scuttle and obey. Still, he points a finger. _“Painting_ is a hobby. _Swimming_ is a hobby. Not _vanishing_ in the middle of the night to go to some po-dunk _fishing_ village without even a peep!”

Without a good comeback, Joy doesn’t bother to respond. There are better things she could be doing. She wonders if It has already found a home in the ancient catacombs of the building—sealed off for health concerns and unapproachable to most.

A smug sense of accomplishment creeps into her chest. In a way, she has been planning this for years. Years boil into moments that _tick tick tick_ through one ear and out the other until she’s somehow in her room again.

The sunlight streams differently than it used to, she finds, putting her hand in the beam—through the swirling, skittering dust motes. She admires how peacefully they float. Her skin heats, boiling, and she wonders if the visions will come soon. The things _It_ would make them see.

Of course, nothing will come. She doesn’t dream anymore.

_She stares. Looks at the clock to remind herself that somewhere, outside, the sun is shining and daylight simply must keep away the monsters lurking unseen in the shadows._

_Small legs and trembling fingers. A twitching gut and fogging head. A door, looming and tall, sealed. What may or may not be there, waiting behind, makes her quake in her boots. Thumb hovers flashlight, floor drops until legs aren’t small anymore. Too long._

_The wood is so rotten it peels off like treebark. The door opens so easily and dear God why is she doing this?_

_Steps descend into the abyss, her flashlight only illuminating the surface of darkness. Still, she must know. She must be like Beverly Marsh, strong and brave and ready to overcome her fears. So she tries, creeping into the dark, seeing white faces and spots where light should be. Thoughts, bad ones, crawl in and out and back in again, writhing like snakes over her tender mind. If there was an It here, this is where it would hide._

_The realization startles her and finally she’s down in the halls, which stretch on and on into silent black. Endless. Her heart pounds, leaping into her throat. Why is she down here? What did she hope to see?_

_What she sees is enough—a blackened smear against filthy white tile. Rationale would call it the decrepit nature of an old, rundown building. Fear says it’s the dried blood of victims, that she’s next._

_The rat that scuttles past with its squealing cry is enough to rocket her back to the steps. She scrambles. Something slips and breaks in the dark, breaking her, too. Gravity pulls her back by the throat, light flies from her and strobes the air until all she sees is the ground and stars._

_Something is burning inside of her. She screams. Forever, she screams. Up and up and up, it floats. No one hears._

_No one comes._

She was fourteen when that happened. If she takes off her raincoat, you could see the scar. Even back then, her obsessions were potent. Undeniable in their motivations. Now, she knows why she never could. Could never play out the free-falling plans concocted in her sinking mind.

Joy was the skittish one with dreams of grandeur. Unoriginal, but sane. It made sense to fear everything, because anything could be fearsome. Maybe that’s why the vision of It plagued her every waking thought. Why she dared entertain the idea of where she would keep something so vile, so irresistibly cunning and malicious. What she would do once It was there, there and real.

The accident was the perfect storm. When they gave her the diagnosis, some small feeling inside told her that things would never be the same. But that was only the beginning. Thoughts flowed unrestrained, spiraling through her like helicopter seeds, drifting and crashing into the waves. One thought after the other: It eats fear. Joy has no fear. It cannot eat Joy. Therefore, Joy can meet It. Therefore, Joy can _see_ It. Therefore, so on, so forth, etcetera.

There’s a knock at the door that jars Joy’s thoughts. Anne is there, as thin and haunting as ever. Joy feels nothing. “Hey,” Anne greets, pocketing her hands and slumping against the frame. “I heard you went out of town.”

Joy nods. Smile. “Mhm.” She pulls the book from her pocket, tossing it on the bedside table. Her mind is not so far gone that she can’t put two and two together—Anne never comes without reason. “What’s up?”

“The West Wing kids need someone to watch them. It’s a nature documentary.”

“So?”

“So,” Anne shrugs again. “The episode’s about jungle reptiles. I mean, I love David Attenborough and all, but you know how I get with snakes.”

Joy shrugs off her coat while Anne watches, and pushes past her lanky frame in the direction of the West Common Room. “Fine.”

The room is big, towering windows letting in the late afternoon light from every angle. Kids circle the television. Some have been here for weeks, some years. None as long as her. She sits in the back row to watch as a viper repeatedly strikes its victim, tearing flesh and rendering them immobile. Petrified.

One boy, Alex, sits by her. They both watch the snakes. He breaks the silence, loudly announcing, “At least you can watch a stupid video, Joy. Anne is such a pussy.”

A few other boys snicker. The youngest one, Jake Stanton, loudest of all. Joy doesn’t necessarily disagree with Alex, but she was scared too. Once.

Alex has always been like this. He’s thirteen now, though. A big boy who uses big boy words. Wears pants a little too loose. “She’s too old for you,” Joy crosses her arms, leaning back in her seat. “But, hey, maybe she would like you back if you weren’t such a little bitch all the time.”

His pale cheeks flush red. He has nothing to say in his pathetically pubescent voice. Joy will never understand his fascination with Anne, but God forbid she get in the middle of it.

She’d rather watch.

In a blink the night has come, and Joy sits up. Waiting. Listening. She can feel the presence. _It_ is here. Stalking. Hunting through the halls.

It’s not long before the screaming comes. Joy pounces, leaping from her bed and trekking down the halls. The calling gets louder and louder. In the evening, security is lax. Children are asleep, too afraid to roam. They must be like penned cattle for It, Joy reasons. Soft and tender. Boyish. Easy prey, she’s sure, for whatever It has become now. She wants to see. Wants to see how it _works_.

Casting herself around the corner, a young boy—Jake, she recognizes—crashes into her arms, tears streaming down his face. He doesn’t say her name, only begs for help. She holds onto him, steadying him, and crouches to look in his eyes. He can’t be older than ten. “What’s the matter, Jake? Is everything okay?”

“I saw, I saw a,” he hiccups.

“What?” Joy presses in earnest. Adrenaline rushes through her as she pushes hair from his damp face. “Saw what?”

He snivels, shaking his head and holding onto her clothes with his little hands. “A… c-clown…”

Joy feels a pull. She looks up, over Jake’s head. At the end of the hall is his room. The orange light bathes against the floor. Inside, Pennywise stands. Smiles. Beckons slowly.

To her.

As she stands, she pets Jake’s head, watching with fascination as the beckoning shadow crawls closer, slinking and extending along the floor. “Shh…” she soothes, softly. So softly. “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.” Jake sniffles, looking up at her.

But she doesn’t look back.

He is grabbed by the ankle, pulled to the ground. Scrambling against the tile, screams and broken sobs echo along the walls, bouncing off her skull and ringing like a church bell. She can hear the choir, rising like hellfire from the earth as Jake becomes nothing more than a wriggling sack of begging flesh sliding helplessly away from her, into the light.

The shadow’s hands become a ghastly grip. Jake struggles in his grasp, but to no avail. It’s stronger, gripping him with all the wrath of a snake. Bringing a finger to his bloodred lips, It—Pennywise—smiles at Joy. Into Joy. Bringing joy.

She takes a step forward, but the door slams shut, blocking her from the sight.

From _seeing_.

She comes to the door when the screaming dies, splaying her seeking fingers against the wood. The moment is long and still, full of hope and relief and curious things. Her hand drifts to the knob, twisting, turning, pulling.

The room is empty, hanging trinkets swaying in the emptiness. Nothing left.

Not a trace.


	4. Impaired Moral Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to those of you who have been waiting for this chapter. Hopefully this will make up for it.
> 
> I would like to thank all of the people who have read, kudo-ed and commented on this story thus far. Your support means a lot!
> 
> Enjoy, my lovely losers~

Seven days are years of waiting. Waiting to watch, to unfold and see the unseeable. The untraceable.

Jake Stanton died on the evening of August tenth—proclaimed missing on the twelfth. Of course, there have been a few more since then. Joy knows. She’s been keeping track.

And It _is_ untraceable. From noon to night, she spends, looking around her to see if he— _It_ —will be there. In the book, It was many different things. She wants to know. Wants to see them all.

But this doesn’t feel like progress, since the tenth. How could it be, when everything happens so quickly, beneath the shadow of night, in the blinding Summer days? A week, she spends. Chasing after sudden sounds and hushed whispers. Seeing nothing but fluttering drapes and glaring linoleum staring back where she hopes eyes will be.

She used to write poetry. It was a hobby Dr. Simmons protested. _Useless to society._ She doesn’t remember the rest, but even now, in the sunlight of the courtyard, the repeated bouncing echoing off the cement and boys calling one after the other like bats, she wishes she still did.

The boys in the facility need watching over most everywhere but here. Here, beneath the warm Summer sun, hoops and nets are shackles and cages to their malevolent childishness, keeping them in the purgatory of male rivalry and sport. Joy was never any good at such things, no matter how much she’d wanted to be.

Now, on the hard bench in the shrinking shade, she watches closely. There is one of this group missing. _Kevin_ , she guesses. She does not know for sure. This place is home to far too many, drifting in and out like waves with forgettable foamy patterns, making it impossible to remember every face.

And still, they play.

Perhaps it’s the only thing they know how to do.

Joy watches impatiently as they continue. Alex is among them—cheating, of course. He knows nothing else. The ball bounces, far too large in his disproportionate hands, far too many times for it to hold ground against the rules. But the rest allow it. Not so uncommon. She follows the ball as it sails and bounces off the rim, as it bypasses their outstretched hands and dives into the trees and beyond.

On a nice day like this, the forest often gives birth to endless shade and shadow. Light will filter through, beaming into the dirt, while the rest is left to wilt in the stillness. Joy has been there before, once. Like the basement, she never intended to return. Now, as Alex pushes past the long grass, disappearing into the gaping maw of woodland timbers with all the bravery of bravado, Joy considers the opposite.

She tracks the minutes by the clouds dipping in and out of the blue. Swarming. The boys start talking, until one of them notices her. She doesn’t have any guesses for this one, but lets him approach her with all of the excitement and withdrawal as one would a vindictive empress.

“Hey, Joy, uh,” He mumbles, circling around himself with self-depreciating earnest. Joy cannot help but admire his caring for someone like Alex—or, at least, the willingness to stay on his good side. The words become sentences, questions Joy was beginning to ask herself. “Alex has been gone for a while, and we were just, well, _I_ was just, hoping that he’s okay? That you could go and see if he’s okay?”

Joy rises, stepping forward. The ground is soggy cement. Flimsy firm. “Sure. Don’t worry, he probably just lost the ball. I’ll help him find it.”

He thanks her quietly, returning to the pack to wait and watch. Odd, how they wouldn’t go in on their own, how she suddenly could now. The grass prickles at her exposed ankles, the grey of afternoon gloom swallowing her whole.

She trudges through the glen, only calling out until the building disappears behind her, leaving her alone. Joy is silent, then. Watching the shadows and waiting.

What did she hope to see, coming here? Certainly not a lost Alex. No. But there is something off about the air. Whispers bounce, barking like trees in their mad scramble to grow. The leaves seem to talk and scream. Ooze and bleed. Once, Joy would have been ashamed to say that she hoped to see Alex’s mangled body in the clutches of a phantasmic creature. But here, in the songless forest only inches from her bed, she wants only that. Only to see what her imagination denies her impatient, hot reality.

A twig snaps. A familiar voice. “Joy...”

She turns. “Oh, there you are,” she notices, watching as Alex comes closer. The ball is grimy, covered in dirt and other natural things, heavy in his hands. But that is not what catches her heartbeat, snaring it in tight curiosity and exhilarated anticipation.

His eyes have a wild look to them. His breath comes ragged, sharp and uneasy. There is a scrape on his cheek, matching his knee. There’s no doubt about it. He saw something. Something terrifying.

Smile. “What’s taking you so long?” Thunder growls beyond the treetops, the duality of her words punctuated by the tepid heat of reality that this boy seems to no longer neglect with his chilled innocence. Alex’s eyes dart behind her nervously. She turns, but nothing is there. If anything, not anymore. Fighting her disappointment, she ushers him forth. “Come on. Let’s go back.”

Alex trudges through the tall grass without protest, passing her with a haunted, open-eyed stare at the ground—as though he refuses to look up. Joy watches him go, watches him disappear into the spotted shade and the light until only stillness is left. She stays put, rooted in the grass as the mug and shadows root into _her_.

That feeling returns. The air shifts in a static charge, yet the hair on her neck does not rise, her heart does not quiver, her legs stand strong and unwavering beneath the dead stare boring into the back of her skull.

Impatience circles her like a vulture, a cloud shrouding the sun and biting her face with the teasing christening of Summer rain. It’s potent. Rising bile in her throat, constricting and dissolving in her chest until all she can say is a hushed “Why did you let him go?”

Soft laughter sounds madly behind her, forcing her to look. It, now Pennywise, smiles the devilish smile foretold of him, a sliver of drool tracing his chin and malice shining in his otherworldly eyes. _He looks healthier than before_ , Joy notices, almost proudly—turning fully to face his shuddering frame.

Pennywise stills and holds up a gloved, instructional finger. The eyes drift, not entirely looking at her face, as the smile settles into a contented, gurgling sigh.

Everything he does is unsettling. Not quite right and hard to describe. But in this moment, he seems more like a wise animal… more like a knowing predator than light wearing human skin. Breath and words are the same as he speaks, almost singing, “Salting the meat makes for a tasty treat. Yes…” A brief, gasping chuckle. “Yes. _Tastier.”_

Neither of them move. Joy sees no reason to, as an epiphany washes over her like the droplets of fallen thunder. “Is that what it is…?” she wonders aloud. She exhales softly as years of backwards theories sink beneath the weight of revelation. “Oh, I see… you _can_ eat the ones who don’t feel fear.” She looks into those burning eyes, which seem to be enjoying her description. “You just don’t _want_ to.”

The smile he holds falls slightly at the corners, but is prideful nonetheless. Lightning flashes, cracking across the darkened sky. Joy looks up, as though noticing the change for the first time. Feels the sting of a raindrop in her eye. Covers it. Looks back down to discover that she is alone once more.

Rainfall is encouraging. Children flee from it, scuttling into the building at the nurses’ beckoning scowls. Joy leaves the treeline in the torrential downpour. Strands fall over her face. Water drips from her nose, her chin. The walk is slow and unhurried.= while her mind races circles around what just happened, fighting curiosity with the need for dry clothes.

Soggy shoes squelch under her, echoing off the corridors. The memory of his face burns into her mind. Unlike their first meeting, his hair is coiffed and kempt. The eyes are brighter. Posture prouder. She smiles a bit, down at the tile. Voices echo from the next room, hooking her by the ear. There is a circle of nurses, Dr. Simmons, and Anne. Joy stops to listen in the doorway, hair dripping softly onto the linoleum, and gazes openly.

Dr. Simmons’s voice is gruff and solemn. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” says a nurse, crossing her arms. She shakes her head, as though to shame a great injustice. “He’s not on the grounds. Neither are the other four.”

“That settles it, then. We should get the police involved,” Anne offers resolutely. Joy notices that her eyes are more sunken than usual.

“Let’s not be too hasty—”

“It’s been a week since Jake went missing,” her choking gives her away. Joy had forgotten how much she must adored the little one. Heartbreaking—considering how readily he'd laughed at Alex's attack against her character. Anne counts him first on her fingers, then the rest. “Kevin Kratz, John Poder, Ruben Hansen… how many more will go missing before we call someone?”

“All boys go through phases,” a nurse waves. “They’re probably just off screwing each other in the woods somewhere. They’ll be back eventually.”

Anne gawks. “What are you talking about? You guys aren’t making any sense—”

“I have a solution,” begins Dr. Simmons, placing a gentle hand on Anne’s shoulder. “We’ll just increase nightly security. If a week passes and they don’t return, I’ll call the authorities myself. There’s nothing to worry about.”

As Anne stares incredulously up at him, another nurse pulls out a cigarette, lighting it inside the building. Thunder rolls. “With this budget? Please. You won’t be getting _me_ to work nights.” The other nurses nod in agreement.

In the thundering silence, an idea floats from Joy’s gut, up and out of her throat. _“I will.”_

They all seem to notice her for the first time, watching like crows as she joins the circle. Dr. Simmons nods, looking her over once. “Are you sure about this, Joy? Perhaps you should focus more on getting your rest.”

“I’ve rested enough, Doctor,” she assures, gently. “I'll take the night shift.”

He has no will to argue. She can see it in his eyes, so like her own. “That’s fine, then. You can keep an eye on the West Wing of the facility—”

“I want to help, too,” Anne interjects from beneath Dr. Simmons’s lingering hand.

He looks down at her again with fatherly indignation. “Out of the question. You are our best day-worker, Anne. The kids love you. Would you deprive them of that?”

She looks down, not entirely defeated. There is a fire in her, a light flickering between those skeletal ribs, that Joy can see. It’s gone in an instant, though, as Anne nods. “Okay. Just let me know if you need somebody.”

“I’m sure we can find someone.” He squeezes her shoulder, all bone. Joy would have winced, once, waiting for a splintering crack that would never come. Dr. Simmons gives her a look, a signal to follow him out the door through the plume of smoke and ash.

The storm rages until nightfall, hard grey fading to the seizuring black and white of lightning strikes. Rainshowers batter the windows and walls. The roof leaks into mop buckets and hallway lights are killed off one by one.

Joy sits at the reception desk, tapping a pen against the lines of an old journal. Poetry does not come as it did before. Words are muddled thoughts, spinning and screaming like circus mice. They cannot be controlled. Anywhere. Not even in her mind. Rusty lamp-light bathes the endless countertop. Every shadow and strike spills over the edges and against her cold skin. Goosebumps from the rain linger on the fine hairs of her arm, setting Joy on the brink of something deeper than the abyss of memories lying on the silhouetted tiles beneath her feet.

A particular flash shakes the ground, cracking through the air. A shape, a lump in the corner of her eye, pulls it to look. She lifts up her head, frowning at him. “What are you doing out of bed? It’s late.”

Alex, eyes sunken and withered, stares wordlessly at Joy. He is slumped over like a sleepwalker. Or a corpse. For a moment she wonders if it is truly Alex until he whimpers, “Could you tuck me in?”

She closes the journal. Slowly. “You’re too old to be tucked in.”

“Do it anyway.”

Folded lips and a skeptical glare is all she offers him, until, “If I do, will you stay in there?” _Will you ever come out again?_

Nod.

Smile. “Fine. I’ll tuck you in.” She rises, rounding the counter to usher him forth. “You big baby.”

He doesn’t chuckle at that. Not even a protest. It’s unlike him. In fact, he doesn’t say a word as they round the corner and walk into his room.

All rooms are the same. With the same, orange light. Same blue bed. Same window and desk. It’s quaint. Home. Joy motions him to the bed, watching as he slips himself inside. It’s childish. Frightened. Joy sits at his side, looking down at his pathetic face. “Was there a monster in your closet, or something?” she asks, waiting for the affirmative.

No straight answer, only shifting eyes. He looks at the closet door, as though terrified by the possibility.

“Alex,” she calls.

“I saw something. In the woods,” he admits. The wild look in his eyes returns, filling the empty pits of his sockets with something worse. “It looked like Jake. But, it wasn’t him…” He sits up. “It wasn’t him.”

Joy’s eyes widen in the light of her affirmation. Thoughts race to conclusions. _The loss of a loved one? His little posse turning on him? Something else?_ Words form in her mind easier now. Questions. She wishes she had been there to see it.

“I told the guys,” he continues, almost rocking against the headboard, “but they didn’t believe me.”

Joy scoffs. She could care less about that. She wants to hear more about the It Alex saw, but doesn’t say so.

“You believe me, don’t you? I swear I’m not making this up. I _swear_.”

With eyes that terrified, Joy would never doubt it. Not even now, when reality can become a bit too questionable. She admires his faith in what he saw. It reminds Joy of herself. “I believe you.”

He blinks. “You do?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. That’s… awesome, I guess. Thanks.”

This is a softer side of the hard Alex. It almost makes Joy forget about all the jackass antics he’s gotten himself into. “No problem. A lot of crazy things have been happening lately. We have to stick together, right?”

“Right,” he mumbles, looking at the door again. Joy follows his gaze, seeing nothing. Pulling the covers to his chest, she frowns in disappointment. It will not come tonight. She is a fool to think she will be able to watch. About to leave, when a hand wraps around her wrist, keeping her to the bed. Alex looks at her, a heady shadow cast over his eyes. “I’m sorry for making fun of Anne.”

Joy nods. “That’s nice. You should tell her yourself.”

“No—I…” The grip on her wrist tightens. “I only do it because I want to make you laugh.” Before Joy can scold him, if she would scold him, he leans forward, reaching out and groping her breast in his lanky, clammy hand. “I like you, Joy. I like you a lot.”

Repulsed by his unwelcome gesture, Joy smacks his hand away, then the side of his face. She rises, wrath boiling her dormant blood and sending her careening out the door without a backward glance. How foolish she was, to let that _punk_ anywhere near her. She stomps down the dark hall, peeling over corners and aiming for the home-base of reception when a piercing shriek sounds behind her.

Turning, Joy stares back into the shadows. Her name, distorted and warped, screams across the glowing floors, crawling up the walls. Calling.

Could it really have happened that quickly…?

Breathing deeply, Joy walks back into the ward, retracing her steps, which pace faster and faster with every stride. Laced with leftover rain and the desire to see to see to _see_.

Screaming fades to hopeless whimpering by the time she enters the room. In one, smooth step, the border is crossed between darkness and light. Low light. Lightning.

Eyes.

Pennywise freezes when she enters, gloved hands stilling over Alex's body. As she stands over him and his grip on the struggling Alex, a nonexistent brow creases. Is it curiosity? Repulsion? Joy can’t bring herself to care. Alex whimpers, reaching for Joy as she simply stares. A white, gloved hand covers and muffles. Joy follows every finger, the hand—so human—and the arm. Up to the eyes that stare and stare at her.

Waiting to see what she will do.

Wetting chapped lips, Joy grabs the chair from its desk, pulling it across the hard floor. When she reaches the doorway, she looks into Alex’s eyes. So wide. So fearful. She must have looked that way, once.

Once was so long ago.

With her free hand, she pushes the door closed. Locks it. With the other, she straightens the chair and takes a seat.

Waits to see what he will do.

As Pennywise watches her sit, the eyes flicker. Understanding, a silence that need not be broken, passes between them and becomes a toothy smile on his face. Alex struggles more, now. Perhaps at Joy’s stillness. Perhaps at the grip tightening around his neck. Perhaps at the electricity, the lightning that strikes between them with fierce and unforgiving reality. Regardless, the grinning jaws part and close down over taut flesh between his throat and shoulder.

Blood spurts and gurgles beyond animalistic growls, coating the curtains and bedsheets with flecks of red—brown in the orange light. Alex cries, then. Tears stream and run with blood down the front of his shirt as it rips, caught in the teeth of Pennywise.

It’s a ferocious action, but nonetheless hypnotic. After a few short minutes of sobbing, screaming, whimpering for her to help, Alex falls silent. Blinking, but silent, as once-white gloves dig into the hole of his neck and rip the arm away. Squelching, meaty sounds echo deftly throughout the room, sinking into Joy’s ears and eyes. Becoming one. Her heart races at the impressive sight, at the tendons clinging to one another as his suddenly small body is ripped in two.

Pennywise uses his teeth to separate the strays, slurping and snarling, seemingly ignorant of her presence. She does not seek to change that, this time. No. Only to watch. To watch and see.

And she sees a lot. Sees his hands dip into wounds to scoop out innards as gleefully as a child carving his first pumpkin. Watches lightning flash over the dead eyes of the once Alex. Joy’s not sure when he’d finally let go. Joy’s not sure she cares. All that exists now is _It._

A process. The flesh is the first to go, ripped and torn with expert precision, chewed like fat. Then limbs, separated and sampled, each in turn. The head is last, the eyes savored, giggled around with revelry most apt displayed in private. Yet he allows her as an audience.

How many hours pass, before bone is visible and clothes are left strewn about the floor to soak in pools of blood? He plucks hair from his teeth disdainfully, throwing aside smaller bones and savoring the tough tubule of the boy’s esophagus—Pennywise’s now.

Her eyes remain glued to the scene before her. Something rises. A feeling, surging and pulsing from temple to wrist to fingertips, ripples through her. It numbs behind blinking, sinking and rising with baited breath over ocean waves. It stills her. Thrashes her.

Numbs her.

As he finishes, distracted by his leftovers, Joy rises, shedding the pillow of its case to kneel before his slumped frame. She doesn’t mind the sticky heat bleeding through the fabric of her pants, instead reaches forward to wipe the blood from his cheek.

Pennywise freezes once more. She wipes again, gentler this time. If this makeup, this face, can come off, she doesn’t want it too. The eyes drift to hers. Studying. Lips part and hang open, revealing teeth as normal as they were before. He’s reverted, it seems, to a more human form.

If she were her old self, Joy would not be here. The Old Joy would never have entertained or allotted herself to come so close, to see these things. Yet here she kneels, wiping away his mess as though he were a child without etiquette. Too young. Too new.

Before she can finish, he rises to full height, leaving her below with the bones and metallic stench. Whatever fear smells like, it must be potent. Intense and pleasurable. Only sensed by those willing to taste. He stares down at her, almost cynically. Does not smile.

Joy stands, too. She had not realized before now how strikingly different they were in stature. Yet up she looks. Unable to fear but still riding the lingering waves, the electric shock of what had just transpired between herself and him. He bends down at the waist, bringing his large, white face to hers. Stares. “Does this make you happy, Joy?” He asks, the brightness hanging limp in the back of his voice. It breaks and squeaks and growls all at once, as if he were not just a roaring beast only minutes ago. He pouts, the smile deftly returning at the corners of painted lips. “Do you want to see _more?”_

There is no hesitation in her answer.

_Carry out the measly scraps_

_wash away crimson stains_

_of nights before_

_which we abhore_

_and all that still remains_

_—Joy Simmons_

August breezes into September with many momentous occasions, of which Joy neither cares nor thinks of much consequence. Yet the fact that they occurred remains, and affects her still.

Joy said nothing about the night of Alex’s death. She did not need to—the blood and clothes were gone by sunrise—thanks to Pennywise. Alex was declared missing soon after.

She likes to think she knows, by now, that Pennywise prefers to eat young boys. Which is good. Joyful Noise Sanatorium has enough of those to feed him for the next couple years. They scamper about like rats, squealing and polluting everything they touch with their twisted intentions. Now that Alex is gone, it’s chaos. Oh, the hierarchy of young boys. So primitive. So fearful. Joy understands why they are the simpler prey. Why It would hunt them.

True to his word, Dr. Simmons contacted the authorities. They came, and were overcome by the dark look so many nurses have grown on their own frowning faces. They found no evidence of foul play. Conducted a brief search of the nearby woods. Said they would keep an eye out. That these things happen.

Nights passed in one of two ways. The first, nothing would stir. Not even the trees outside the window.

The second, Joy would feel... something. Look up to see a balloon approaching her from the shadows, drifting past and continuing on for her to follow. What a fascinating array of sights awaited her, when she did. The chance to see, to watch, to feel that pulsing ebb which began to haunt her dreamless sleep. Begging to be noticed and appeased. She would trail the tail of his messengers, finding a gruesome scene at the end.  A twisted form of entertainment, perhaps.

Joy doesn’t think much of it. With every catch comes baited breath. The feeling. Rising and aching. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, or she is simply fooling herself—thinking that those eyes flicker, glow brighter whenever she walks into the room. That those hands grasp and tear and strike harder when she’s watching.

Watching.

The sun sets faster these days. Rain comes down cold and slow. Days blur together because only the night matters to her now. But she watches out of her beaded, wet window while the slim frame of Anne slips between the trees.

Pulling her cardigan over chilled skin, Joy shudders and sits on the edge of her bed, reaching out to smooth the worn cover of the book. She considers reading it again, remembers how words blend and lie, and decides against it. She has the real thing now. She needs nothing else.

The night will come soon. She knows she needs to rest, yet, as she lies there, she can’t.

What anticipation writhes beneath the skin, now? Memories flash and create excitement, ideas and wonder and racing hearts she’d thought had long since been extinguished. The pulse in her wrists returns. Fingertips, neck, the joint between her thighs. Closed eyes and wandering, wandering, wandering. It builds. It consumes. It makes her feel alive. Burning and throbbing with voices chanting at the base of her skull, echoing and screaming and beating faster and faster and faster and faster and faster until the world vanishes beneath her back.

There’s a name on the edge of her lips that won’t come. The sound of it fades in her mind until sleep is all that keeps her breathing.

_There is something on the inside that needs to come out. A piece of her, left behind, staring out the window from a wheelchair while the sun rises and sets with every slow blink and swallowed pill. Where is her mind, they ask. She’s always been rather odd, they whisper._

_That’s when the idea comes to her. When it does not frighten her. When she realizes that the fear in her core has been hollowed out… and only a shell is left._

_That’s when she smiles._

A familiar presence hovers over her, beckoning Joy’s lidded eyes to part. Moonlight streams in, illuminating the curve of the red balloon floating at her bedside.

Instantly awake, Joy sits up. Stands. The balloon bobs, and begins its journey. The fact that she overslept does not matter now. Only following the slow progress through the desolate halls. Her bare feet slap against tile, pattering off the walls and into silence.

Eventually it leads to the door. The door to the cellar. The door she entered so long ago. Back when she was  _once_ _._ It opens on its own, now. The balloon floats gently down.

Joy reaches out to grasp the nearest railing, feeling carefully along its uneven wood, more out of habit than fear of falling. The boards feel flimsy. She does not want to fall, does not want to slow down, so she treads carefully, sinking into the darkness.

There is a solitary light shining like a sunbeam in the middle of the room that was never there before. The balloon drifts there. Halts. She stands to marvel at it. A feeling surges through her, screaming that this is different. She knows it, but does not know how. But she wants to know. It would never bring her down for no reason.

It has something to show her.

As soon as her fingers wrap around the thread, a gloved hand shoots out from behind and envelops hers.

Before she can think of moving, an iron arm snakes around her middle. Long fingers splay against her side, pulling her body backwards and pinning her against a cold chest. The balloon slips away, but the hand remains, cold and hard and inexorable.

Growling shudders through her flesh, rippling like thunder. She can feel his face sinking. Mouth drawing closer to her ear. His breath comes ragged—moreso than usual. Something wet dribbles on her neck, sliding between skin and shirt, oozing. “I know your kind,” Pennywise rasps. The giddy facade flickers in and out while the darkness underneath hisses with subdued ferocity. She swallows as he speaks. “I know you humans. I know your _weaknesses_ ,” The hand at her side digs into the skin, making her gasp. The other arm, the hand over hers, pulls in and traps her in its inescapable embrace, throwing her heartbeat back at her from her palm. A smug snigger rumbles against her spine. “But you… you're not human anymore,” his voice drops to a whisper, _“are_ you?”

As two hands suddenly become more, pawing at her clothes and wrangling over her body, Joy closes her eyes. What answer could she give him like this, where the waves return and crash against the walls of every cell inside of her? One of them traces over her sternum, wrapping around her throat with long, unforgiving fingers. The pulse is there. Always there.

Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the final installment of this story, focusing primarily on Pennywise. It's going to be even longer than this one, and hone in on the more sensual aspect of his (It's) character. Hopefully my current situation will let me have some free time to create the content you deserve and get it out as quickly as possible. Until then, I love hearing your responses and predictions.


	5. Aggression

_Darkness._

_Slinking and pathetic in every nature—insufferable. Engulfing. What could be, what was and is, writhes without thought. Coherency._

_It was no different, yet that knowledge alone spurned and churned and sealed whatever semblance of flesh it had. Light. Stars. Falling through until old enemies made gravity stronger. Wonderment, its tainted beauty, would be left to rest until an age teased by smoke and scent._

_Human minds are simple—small, flickering lights. Blinking. Dying. The wonderment of stars burns there, gently, softly, begging to be snuffed out. Tainted. Swallowed. Relished._

_The first whiff of wonder drifted between the infantile plantlife, slinking between small, thoughtless creatures and into It. Without name, without face. With hunger, with tact. Reaching into their light, images came. Symbols, sounds. Letters and words, so called. The primitive species had a language. Some semblance of intelligence._

_Flavor._

_Their concepts were simplistic enough. To become them felt like second nature. The first time was thoughtless hunting, a slaughter. They never saw it coming—except one. A human who slipped from an immortal grip, scrambling and stewing in deliciously tained wonder._

_Fear._

_The creatures of the endless macroverse, in all of their foolishness and infinite ignorance, could never reach such levels of wonder. Maturin himself knew no such purity of taste, rather hurling stars from his stomach like an ungrateful, petulant fool. He would sit and sap and lick his wounds, dishonorable self-pity for a pillar of morality._

_Dreams were all It shared with him—nothing more than that, yet still resentment builds. Now It knows. Now It sees. The now is all It can be, between flesh and sleep and dreams—oh, to rest and to spend an eternity free of the corporeal, to bask in the darkness and revel in the stars._

_But the staves of hunger bears little time, It finds, in this and every world. The need to feed, to feast, prevails over the endless dreams It desires above all else._

_Hunting humans was a simplistic task—no match for immortal strength of body and mind. They knew nothing of their own light, their shine, the regrettable power they hold over Maturin and It alike. Another detestable quality to share, yet one to be defied by the delicious taste of Maturin’s tained wonder._

_It shames over the length of time to which the discovery of children was made. But after, oh after, there would be no turning back. Their raw fear permeates the air with temptation, the scent of bloody flesh and the sound of screaming only adds to their flavor. Self-inflicted; such miserable little creatures. They planted their own fears, and It could only indulge to reap the harvest._

_Reading their thoughts, It found them foolish. They believed It revelled in anything more than the taste—the chase, for instance. Not so. The chase was nothing but an impediment, no cause for mirth or celebration in their torment beside the private delight in taste. No. It was all manifested to reach an end, to salt the meat and move on. A ruse without motivation._

_Human emotion is beneath It._

_Human emotion. Fear, anger, lust, all the weakness of wonderment. Meant to be exploited—never felt._

_And yet…_

_Derry, Maine. Seven children together, a vexing sort. Even the memory of them leads back to the damned_ emotions _they inflicted. Planted. They taught It to feel... anger. To revel in the torment, the satisfaction of inflicting pain. Such a new thing. A changing thing._

_Pain was more than fear, then. It was joy. A cursed wisdom better left untapped, for human emotions grow like weeds and tendrils and thorns, digging in wherever they please. But It did not care, too wrought with the addictive sensation of suffering until it was too late to sever the vine._

_And now, now he has_ her.

_It, Pennywise, it, he—human forms are always so limiting. But this way it is easier to hold her, the sensations beneath every fingertip charged with a quivering need to touch._

_He did not expect to wake in immediate peace. Half-fearing, half-rejoicing, half-awed by the explicit solitude and lack of threat in that damnable town. A new generation, a new wave to hunt and take and devour. Sweet little fears, unknowing of what awaited them. He remembers every name that passes his lips, no matter the shape they appear. The hunger, of course, was immense. Unavoidable. It did not find fulfillment in the act, only the result. The sustaining of It’s life. But now, after the seven led It astray, Pennywise lives. Lives to hunt and to_ feel.

_All living things have light within them, light from the stars. Animals, humans… every sentient creature held out their light like a beacon, never fading until It or death or both took them, feasting on the temporary flicker of wonder incarnate. Without fail, some brighter than others, there._

_Until her._

_Hardly a child, barely a woman, she stood and stared him down without a speck. There was no light inside of her—the flame he could so easily see had somehow been extinguished, if it had ever been there at all. As if she were already dead and devoured long ago._

_She was… inedible. No wonderment, no fear. Nothing but a name. Joyjoyjoyjoy. A hollow, unappetizing shell of a human. A waste. A shame. Not worth the effort it would take to string her by her tender, dripping intestines._

_But still, there she was, looking into the eyes It—Pennywise—showed and somehow seeing inside. She knew of the events before her own birth, recited them and held out the proof in her small, fragile hands. The memories came swiftly, as they always do, and he was prepared to leave her be. Such a thing had never happened before, and he let his disinterest manifest into wayward distraction. If_ they _were to return, he would need to feast and fill as soon as possible before laying to rest once more. The weeds would come for them then, and It would live on in peace. As much as Pennywise desired the flow of their blood between his teeth, the cracking marrow of their bones and the screaming anguish of their painful demise, It was no fool. Waiting was all that was necessary. Waiting and taking great care._

_So when she offered him that, how could he refuse?_

_And oh, she was magnificent. At least, as much as a human could be. The lacking of light was not for want of fire, and Pennywise soon found the darkness was much more… indulging. Almost every night she waited patiently, like a dog, her tail wagging and ears perked for him. To humor her was to feed her, as she fed him, and how could he deny such a wounded and unique creature?_

_There was justification in this wonton urge—a study of a new state of being. Nothing more than that. The only being in the universe without light, without wonder, oh… oh. A delicious development. She craved it on her own. The blood. The fear. He had influenced people before, manipulated their light into his design. A simple thing, with age. This girl would have been no different. But where the light was lacking, desire remained. A phantom burning. A dead star, untamable._

_Endless centuries would pass before this moment, filled with only the hunger for sustenance, the urge to last without end. Earth women had their tastes, but their maturity and lesser fears never tasted as sweet as their child’s. There was no more to them, their flesh, than that. In fact, eating them would only shorten the population of his prey._

_But Joy… she yearned alone. Starved for knowledge only It could impart. Such a notion was… elating. Her eyes swam with dim desire, watching every rip and swallow, bathing in every scream. Sometimes she would be coated in more blood than himself, her pretty little face shadowed and ripe with the lust for more._

_And he, Pennywise, It—would provide._

Now, now he has her, trapped in his grip and pliant to his touch. She is a breathing corpse, empty and void, lost in the throng of endless hands. She’s lost count of how many there are, unable to see with her eyes concealed, but knows there are far more than anything with hands ought to have.

One of them dives between her legs and she jolts, groaning into the gloved palm muffling her lips. He laughs at her, dark and deep and slow, moving and coaxing more until she is choking and breathless. The hands and fingers take and explore, above the cloth of her loose shirt and beneath, but not enough. Here, like this, she is not a girl, not a woman, and certainly not human.

Just Joy.

Shuddering, her arm slips from his grasp and goes up. A stray hand takes advantage of the angle, pawing and engulfing her breast as her fingers find their mark. Softly, tenderly, as her body yearns to do, Joy takes his cheek in her palm, digits and pads bracing the surprising silkiness of his face.

Suddenly, he stiffens, halting in his delightful movements. Joy’s eyes open as he pulls away. Disheveled and damned, she turns to see him staring, wide-eyed and feral. She wants to ask why he stopped, why he would lure her down here only to tempt, when she finally sees it swimming and drowning in his dilated, makeshift pupils.

Fear.

And then he’s gone, backing into the shadows further than she can follow.

_This was not supposed to happen. This was not the way it should be._

_It was supposed to be simple. A carnality, a feral soothing of the ache._

_Not this._

_Not the emotions she had, that she inflicted, when she touched him. Not the warmth of anything but blood._

_No._

_Not this._

The Summer is completely absent, now. September rolls into October and not one child has gone missing since that night where her hands got the best of his.

Joy taps her foot on the linoleum floor as she sits restlessly in her seat. Thoughts push and pull in her mind. The influence of It is fading—the nurses are returning to their dark and sad selves. Dr. Simmons is more pressing with his patients, as though guilt has thrust him into overdrive.

Yet the missing children go unmentioned.

Was it all a dream? No. There was no way it could have been. The memories, the pulsing aches, are too potent, her imagination no longer wild enough to imagine the past weeks on its own. Her mind is too far gone. She doesn’t dream. She doesn’t dream anymore. There is only _want_.

She wants to know why. She wants to feel that touch again, to know what women know that she has only ever known alone. She has tried to replicate it, to no avail. There is no release. No escape.

She doesn’t sense when Anne approaches her, hands on her pole-narrow hips. Only when she clears her thin little throat. Looking up into hollow, piercing eyes, Joy glares back. Smiles.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

This is a rare occurrence. Lately all Anne ever does is stare, like Joy stares. Joy sits up in her seat, tapping her hands casually on the tabletop. The cafeteria is empty for the most part, and she motions to the bench across from her. “Sure.”

But Anne doesn’t move. “I want to ask you something. It’s about that book you’re always reading.”

Joy blinks. “What about it?”

“I haven’t seen you pick it up since this Summer,” she continues, shoulders rising. It’s as if her skin is prickling, every fine hair a seam fit to burst. “You’re usually reading and re-reading that thing. You never put it down—not even after the accident. But you’ve barely touched it since that day you went to Maine.”

Of course Joy hasn’t. Why would she need to? She has the real thing now. But even _she_ knows she can’t just say that. “So?”

Anne’s eyes search Joy’s, and she can tell there is nothing to be found. Losing one’s mind loses one’s sense of discretion. Usually they, her thoughts and tongue, are uninhibited. Free. But here there is more than Joy, a mission to see through, even if it is unseen and forgotten. For now.

“I’m,” Anne sighs, “I’m worried about you, Joy. All of these things that have been happening… they…”

Something sharp as shrapnel spears into the back of Joy’s skull, and an alarm rings silently in her ears. The urge to get this over with takes control. “What?” she almost spits. “Say it.”

Her eyes become hard, as though she were to pull them from her sockets and stone Joy with them. “I remember what you’ve told me in the past. They… these incidences, are _just_ like the ones in that book. Joy, you... don’t know anything about this, do you?”

 _And what if I do? What if I’ve watched?_ Joy doesn’t answer. If she opens her mouth the truth will come out, out, out, _out._

Anne’s gaze goes from solid to a simmering melt, pooled with fear and disbelief. “Joy?”

She blinks, Joy again. Smiles. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she assures, keeping her voice soothing and soft. “I’m just as worried as you are.” _For different reasons,_ she knows, but does not say.

A breath is sucked in through drum-skin lips, and Anne nods, her eyes cast down and far away. “I… I see. Sorry to bother you. I’ll just go now.”

She gives herself away in the way she stands. Her legs twinge and Joy can see them strain with fear and purpose. The soles of her shoes squeal as she turns and makes her way to the exit.

Joy watches, and grows tired of watching.

Following Anne is easy because Joy knows where she is going. Knows that the gleam in her eye is an idea, a folly, a truth.

Just as she suspects, Anne is in Joy’s room, ransacking the shelf and pulling out the book.

Possession overcomes her as Joy reaches out, clawing for the book with an obscene “Give it back!” snarling from her lips.

Anne holds it out of reach, looking at Joy as though she were a rabid dog. And Hell, she might as well be. But still Anne manages to elude her, turning and holding the book to her chest as though it will shield her. But Joy knows the truth. That book is hers, and so is everything inside it.

“Joy, please, you’re not well!”

“Who gives a _fuck_ about _well?!”_

Rushing away before Joy can snatch the book from her spindly fingers, Anne bolts down the hallway. Towards the steps. Joy is hot on her heels. Oh, she feels like a child again this way, her shoes tapping on the tile. Running. Always _running._

It’s a miracle when Joy reaches out and snags the back of Anne’s shirt. Everything is too loose on her. She tugs, hard, and Anne spins to claw off her hold. Joy takes advantage of the position, using her free hand to go for the book.

“Joy, don’t!” She hisses. “Can’t you see what this thing has done to you? _Look_ at yourself!”

She has, and she has grown so, so tired of looking. Looking when there is nothing to _see_ . “Give it back,” she wails. _“Give him back to me!”_

Neither one notices or knows when the door opens. But the walls, the tile floors, the flickering ceiling lights all know which door it is. Know whose steps lay just beneath, exposed and fading and becoming something _else._

But Anne has heard the story of Joy’s _once_ . Her _once_ bravery, her _once_ fall. Her eyes are dark and full of righteousness as she manages a furious pull and cries, “This book has turned you into something you’re _not_ , Joy. And I can’t let that happen anymore.”

As she speaks, Joy is only allowed to watch as her most prised, most sacred treasure is ripped from her hands and thrust into the awaiting darkness—down into the Hell below. “No!” Joy grieves, thrusting herself against the doorway to see where it fell.

But the sight that awaits her is not as horrifying as what once was.

There, writhing, coiling, unfurling and humming with wretched life…

...is a sea of snakes.

Anne leans in close as Joy watches them slither, one over the other, every shape, size and breed. She gasps, swearing, wondering at how and why.

But Joy knows.

Joy knows why.

There is a grasp on her sleeve. Persistent in its urgency and desire for safety. Perhaps it is that. Maybe. Whatever the cause, it does not stop Joy’s own wrists from reaching up to wrap around her boney, decrepit arm. Memories of a time long since passed resurface. A shared childhood and eyes sunken into a skull uncrushable and hard. A doll falling to the floor, flung away in terror. Tossed and fallen, like the words lost to the abyss.

She looks into her eyes when she does it.

She _sees_.

“Anne… _could you get that for me, please?”_

There is a push. Gravity taking hold and pulling her down, down, down, as it had before. The hissing chorus rises and becomes a sinister aria of promise. The hold on her is strong, and Anne falls first, eyes wide enough to finally see only for them to disappear as the gripping pull takes her in.

Joy falls too, her feet betraying her and sending her body over the edge. Her hand flies back, an attempt to balance herself, or maybe, if she wants, to preserve her own life.

Suddenly, something large, hard, and cold wraps around her fingers. The incredible strength of it jars her, leaving her hanging by her toes like a vigilant gargoyle on the precipice of the almighty and untouchable, arm twisted behind her like a prisoner. A sinner.

There. Anne falls, her back landing in the throng of serpents as she screams. It’s a high, eerie sound that a skeleton would never make for lack of lungs. But she does it anyway. She screams and screams and no one comes. Her limbs flail as multiple sets of fangs sink into her flesh. The sound of it scrapes through the air, not drowned out by her pitiful, lonely wails and choking sobs.

She’s calling Joy’s name, but Joy says nothing. Only watches as the pit seems to swallow her whole. Her blood spurts and bathes each scaly hide in dark ooze, sliding and dripping and wafting into Joy’s nose from her view above.

The woman does not go silent as Joy finally turns. A gloved hand still holds firm to her fingers, and she follows its wrist to the arm, the shoulder, the neck, the chin, the mouth, the nose, the eyes of Pennywise.

He pulls her up stiffly, movements disjointed and lacking in grandeur what they make up for in silence. Gravity becomes her ally again as she rights herself, watching him watching her. His lips are parted in either a thoughtful or thoughtless way, and she does not reach out to touch them again. Instead, she turns and comes as close to the edge as she needs, looking over the lip of Hell.

The woman has finally quieted—a snake easing out of the hollow of her throat seeing to that with a flicking tongue. She twitches now and then, teeth large and bared, but otherwise makes no move to resist.

After a while, they never do.

He comes to stand beside her and they simply watch. When the woman’s eyes have been discovered and removed by a peckish little thing that slithers into one socket and out the other, Joy reaches beside her to take that hand again. It is un-moving, un-flinching, un-reciprocating, but there.

There and real.

_She is waiting for him, then. He knows this. He does._

_Her body, clothed and undulating with every breath, does not betray nervousness or fright. Her eyes are wide and take in every corner of a stolen man’s face._

_He’d thought she’d find it preferable, this piece of memory stolen from the earth long before she’d been born to it. To a name not Pennywise but a body the same, unconcealed. He thought she would prefer the peachy skin, the bared hands and deep blue eyes._

_She presents herself like an offering, lying still and expectant. There are no words spoken here, there is no need. Slowly, easily, he walks to the end of her bed and watches her eyes. There is no light there. None at all. Nothing but consuming darkness._

_But there is something, he finds, he wants to give her. More than something to see. Something she has given him—something to feel. To live. He lowers himself, eyes trained like an animal, and crawls over her sheets. The dip in the mattress excites her, the longing in her eyes betrays her._

_“Joy,” he whispers, tracing her face until his thumb finds her bottom lip. He pulls it down, noticing for the first time how remarkable the pliant flesh can be when it is not in between his teeth._

_Well, he soon seeks to remedy that._

_She doesn’t say a word, and she doesn’t need to. Following instinct, secondhand lessons from men and boys alike, he leans in close until the smell of her is more potent than ever before. She stops him, though, pressing her hand against his mouth. His eyes return to her for a purpose, and she shakes her head. Swallowing, her voice comes through, thick and pleading and oh so_ maddening. _“...I want you.”_

_He pulls away, a human face pouting pink lips as he replies, “Then you shall have me.”_

_When he tries again, her hand rises a second time. A low growl resounds in his throat, patience and curiosity forgotten as he wrenches it away by the wrist. She lets him, but still she whispers, “The_ real _you.”_

_Pausing, he realizes her intent. The smile comes naturally, this time. Not as a ploy of fear for fear’s sake, not a lure… a simple, wicked thing borne from her lovely, darkened desires. He feels his appearance change, skin rippling and changing shape to take form._

_The form she prefers._

“Thank you for coming to see me, Joy.”

She runs her thumb mindlessly over the ridge of her finger, hands in her lap. She stares at the nameplate on his desk. Her last name stares back at her. “Of course, Doctor.”

Dr. Simmons eases himself back into his chair, folding hands over his stomach. “I’m proud of you, Joy. After all of this hardship, you’ve still managed to be patient and hardworking as ever.”

Something close to pride rises in her chest, bobbing up and down as it rides waves of confusion and pleasant surprise. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Anne was your best friend. Falling down those stairs the way she did… I know the loss must be hard for you.”

 _It’s not._ “Thank you, Sir.”

“But, I have some good news!”

Joy’s ears perk. She doesn’t know what he could possibly say now that could be any good—at least, not to him—but she finds herself eager to know what he has to offer.

“Ever since you’re little… _excursion,_ last Summer, I’ve been thinking. After the accident, you worked so hard to go back to having a normal life. But, I kept you cooped up, and you needed that escape—”

Oh. She sees, now. The good news is that he forgives her. How generous of him.

“—and that’s why I invited Mr. Denbrough to come here.”

Her heart freezes, bleeding cold in her chest. “...What?”

“Your favorite author,” he chimes, smiling a perfectly-white smile that says how proud he is of himself. “Isn’t it amazing? I emailed him, told him about the situation at the sanitorium, and he agreed to come and meet you. He’ll be here in ten minutes—”

Joy rises from her seat, hands clenched at her sides and trembling. Her skin thrums and the limbs inside ring, like she is no more than a struck bell. But this is not fear. She knows fear, and its strong hold. This… this is anger. White-hot and burning. It courses through her in sweet, heady pulses and oh, _God,_ it _feels._ “He can’t come here.”

He can’t. Bill Denbrough, here… it would ruin everything! Everything she’s worked so hard to achieve, everything she’s _seen!_

Dr. Simmons fixes her a confused stare, rising and coming to her from behind his desk, holding her by the shoulders. It is no comfort. It holds her down. “Joy… I thought you would be happy,” he says, squeezing.

She shakes her head, backing out of his grasp. No. She’s not happy. She’s Joy. “What have you done…?” she whispers, the heat rising in her throat.

His face becomes stern, normal again. “What did you say, young lady?”

Eyes, inexplicably burning, rise to meet his. “What have you _done?!”_

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” he nearly growls, reaching out to take her arm. “Just calm down and wait here.”

Her hand pries frantically at his, but his are bigger, wedding ring stiff and unpolished and digging into her skin. “Let go of me.”

“No!” He shouts, authority dripping from every pore in his body. “I invited him here just for you, and I will not have you humiliate me by wasting his time!”

“I _said,_ ” Joy snarls, “let… _go!”_

As everything seems to do now, her hand moves of its own accord. It wraps around the shining nameplate resting, a witness, on the desktop, and strikes through the air like a dagger against his temple. Their shared blood spatters their name, etched and eternal in bronze and reeking a familiar, metallic stench.

His grip loosens and he falls, heavy, like a sack of refuse left to rot. His blood pools on the pristine white tile and he groans, rolling in agony and confusion.

Her mind goes to the pressing matter at hand as she lets the nameplate clatter to the ground. Minutes. She only has minutes. Quickly, she turns on her heel and bolts out the door, racing to the basement.

“Pennywise!” she cries out, rushing down the steps. Her heart is in her ears and she doesn’t know why. _“Pennywise!”_

He doesn’t come when she calls. _He might be feeding,_ she realizes. She turns and runs back up the stairs, not realizing that the book waits and watches in the shadows as she runs into the light.

She searches every room she passes. Some have been empty for weeks, but she checks anyway. Nothing. How many minutes remain? How many seconds until he is ripped from her? She cannot bear the thought. She skids into the long hallway, facing the door that leads outside. It seems so far away. Perhaps he is outside. Perhaps he is already gone. 

"No,” she whispers, breaking into a run. She must get to him first, she has to—

“Joy.”

Joy stops, and turns. He stands there, frame taking up the gaping maw of the hallway and face illuminated in the shallow light. His smile is gone from him, face twisted and fallen in what she knows to be concern.

“Bill Denbrough,” she discloses quickly, walking closer to face him. “He’s coming. He’ll be here soon. You have to leave.”

Pennywise doesn’t react beyond a deeper frown, glancing thoughtfully down at his shoes. Her breath hitches when he looks up again, eyes smoldering and nearly glowing. Perhaps it is selfishness that makes her think, hope, that it is because he does not want to. He reaches out, stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Tell me something, Joy,” he says quietly, “do you want to see more?”

She looks into his eyes, all that she’s ever imagined them to be and more. So much _more._ She is a greedy person, a devotee to sacrifice as much as a devourer. How she never knew before, was never free to, she will never know. Like the monsters that slink between every blade of grass, tracking and tracing unseen, she will never know. But now she can.

She can know.

She can _see_.

And that’s all that matters.

_Her fingers reach up to cup his cheek, sucking the cold from his skin and the pleasure that comes with it. Something within this body shudders and stirs at the feeling of her skin, yearning for more of its touch. He will never be free of this, just as he is never free from the unrelenting desire to hunt and to feed and to dream._

_Human emotion is beneath It. They are vile, lowly things—humans. Food, for him or the dirt and the mindless worms. Nothing more._

_But she is not human. Not really. Her light is gone from her, extinguished into beautiful darkness. She is a void that yearns to be filled, a beacon of night in the blinding, burning sun. A close haven of rest and pleasure that rivals the endless dreams._

_When she nods his spirit is set aflame, and he wastes no time. Of the many lights he has doused, those that belong to him remain. The bane of Maturin’s wonder—the Deadlights. It’s jaws unhinge before her roving, hungry eyes, but he keeps himself reined enough to watch her face as he reveals them to her. Only briefly—she is still human, and he will not take the risk._

_But he seeks to remedy that._

_He closes his mouth enough for lips to return, and his hold on her face is supported by his other hand. She is small, like everything else, between his palms as he holds her still. She is soft and pliant to his touch, watching him as he comes closer, wedging her lips open with his thumb._

_She jumps when his lips meet hers, and a trickle of blood smears their connected flesh. Delicious, almost distracting, but he remains focused on his goal. He keeps her mouth open as his body hollows, summoning one of his lights to the surface._

_He does not need to tell her what this will do. Does not need to speak the words of immortality, the promise of an eternity as his true equal. Damn Maturin and his wonderment, his_ creation.

_The fool—he created Joy. Created the one being who has become his enemy’s undoing and salvation._

_As it passes her lips, Joy bucks under his hand and whines. Oh, yes, it will hurt. But only for a second. Soon her transformation will be complete—and his Joy will truly become_ perfect. _He would moan at the thought if he had a voice, but all this body can do is shudder from the intense pleasure of her soft lips and burgeoning strength._

_Pennywise parts from her, resuming his form and smiling around her blood. He releases her face like a dove, her eyes distant and becoming consumed by the Deadlight within her. The bright glow of power sprouts from her irises as her chest convulses as she gasps and chokes down her scream. He kneels to catch her when she falls forward, easing her into his arms and watching rapturously as her hair tickles through his fingers._

_Soon enough her breathing is even and she smiles listlessly up at him. Never before has anyone looked at him this way, with pure adoration and devotion. They have only ever been illusions, before. Fooled prey or the influenced slave. Never this._

_Satisfaction fills him and he sighs, brushing the dark, stray blood from her lip as he feels her power settle and burn. Her eyes, now a bright yellow like his own, search his face with all the joy of her name._

_Until something flickers._

_He can feel it, can see it. As the wound in her mouth closes, so too does something in her mind. It seals shut like a prison cell and suddenly there is_ light.

_Her eyes, once squinted in a passionate smile, come loose and grow wide. A scent floats deliciously, traitorously into his being and suddenly his Joy is no more._

_A gasp, broken and whining, escapes him. A strangled, brief cry of grief as Joy leaves him and is replaced by a frightened girl trembling in his grasp. The hollowness in his chest becomes a chasm of aching emptiness, and he is alone again._

_As she stammers and begins to plead, with himself or her, he doesn’t care. He grabs her by the arms and shakes her body, willing with growling, cracking desperation that the light will fade and return her to him. But his Joy does not return, lost to a time that will never be again._

_Yet her fear remains, and as he stills her, eyes wide and unfamiliar stare into him with nothing but terror and… acceptance. She doesn’t fight, this girl, this_ human. _Does not whimper or whine, merely closes her eyes and lets a single tear fall as she cranes her neck, baring it to him in surrender. In sacrifice._

_In love._

The car rolls to a stop and he offers the man a hefty tip in his haste to enter the building. The gravel shifts and pops under the soles of his shoes as Bill Denbrough checks his phone. He has called Dr. Randall Simmons three times and has received no response. It worries him—makes him think he is too late.

He walks up the steps and takes a deep breath, pulling off his hat and reaching for the door with a trembling hand. He turns the knob slowly, willing himself to be brave. He’d always thought this would happen in Maine, with his friends surrounding him in all their strength. But still, he opens the door.

And stops dead as it swings open. His mouth gapes at the sight before him.

Pennywise kneels, arms wrapped around the frame of a young woman as his fangs sap at her neck. Something not quite blood, dark and gold, lolls around his lapping, almost sensorial tongue, streaming a trail up to the ceiling. The liquid spreads with the blue tinge of fire—fanning out and crawling further into a burning flame.

Then he is seen.

_The blood and flesh are sickeningly sweet, better than he could have imagined. Like his, it floats, but it is alive and golden, glowing with the power inside and burning everything it touches. His hands hold her to him until bones creak and a door does, too._

_A familiar presence makes him pause, and his head lifts up to see a familiar, wretched light. Fury burns in him at the sight of Bill Denbrough, now a man, standing and watching where only_ her _eyes belonged._

_He… he is the reason why. The reason why this happened—why he lost his Joy. The emotion he taught It all those years ago, the anger, the lust for vengeance, returns with renewed strength. His hands release her body, letting it float to join her flames as he rises and lunges, prepared to kill with her face as the cause._

There is only one thing to do.

Bill thinks fast, jolting for only one moment before snagging back the knob and closing the door. It bangs against it as he pushes back, feet scraping and straining the cement as he lets loose a string of stuttering curses. Behind the door there are screams of every shade. First Pennywise’s, then Richie’s, then, oh God, _Beverly._ It sticks with that voice, taunting him when he knows it’s not real.

_Pain._

_He has only ever felt pain twice. First, when he was struck by that damned girl afraid of her own womanhood. Then, by them all, forcing him into submission with their damned_ light _and wonder._

_But now, this is a different kind of pain. It rips him in two within his body in a sense not literal yet the same. A torment. A scourge of a soul he does not possess._

_Loss._

_He almost has Bill Denbrough in his grasp when her voice comes soft._

_He stops, turning to look up where she floats. Her hand is braced against her throat, not stifling the fire that is beginning to burn all around them. Unthinking, he walks until he is underneath her, looking up into those eyes. She reaches out for him, and he reaches up to meet it, her slender, familiar fingers sliding into his palm._

_The gloved fingers drenched in her blood wrap around hers, as he slowly, slowly, pulls her down to him. Her grace is unparalleled as the life drains from her, as she floats down to his chest—as the light and darkness war in her human mind and immortal body._

_He pulls her until she is draped and limp in his arms, and turns away from the outside. Silently, he walks, her blood flowing and floating, burning everything in their wake as he comes to the doorway._

_They linger there for only a moment, before he descends with lumbering steps into the darkness below._

Outside, Bill stumbles down onto the gravel road. He punches in the number for the police, his deep voice becoming childish again as he struggles into the speaker. “There’s, there’s been a fuh, fire at Juh, juh, _Joyful Noise Sanatorium._ Yes. Hurr, Hurry!”

Smoke is beginning to pour from the windows and children are screaming. Bill’s breath comes heavy and he knows he cannot wait. He covers his nose with his shirt and takes a deep breath, rushing towar—

The door bursts in a great mound of fire, glass shattering and choking the sky in black and dark and flame. Bill gasps and covers his face, but cannot escape the heat that scorches his body. Ears ringing, he sits up from where he’d been blown down by the explosion, groaning at the pain of the rocks at his back.

His eyes rove the scene, despair in his eyes as the building is engulfed and the screaming is silenced. He… he was too late. But he knows, knows deep in his soul, that this is not over.

He looks and looks until he cannot bear it anymore, casting his eyes to the dust as hair falls in his face and sirens wail in the distance.

And there, in the dirt beside him, lying singed and burning…

… is a book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take this time to thank you all for your remarkable patience and support. After the movie was finally released on DVD, I was given the strength to power through this final chapter. Thank you thank you thank you for coming on this journey with me.
> 
> And as always, I love you, my lovely losers~! *hugs*


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